


create a mantra, and stick with it

by nante



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Blood and Gore, Bloodplay, Corpse Desecration, Dark Steve Rogers, Don't Like Don't Read, Gore, I'm Going to Hell, M/M, Murder, Mutilation, Necrophilia, Serial Killer Steve Rogers, Serial killer Steve, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, im sorry, non-con, satan is already warming my seat tbh, steve why, this is gross, tony cries, which is completely understandable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 09:56:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14788301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nante/pseuds/nante
Summary: Tony finds out his boyfriend murders people, and that he might be more disturbed with himself than he ever wanted to come to terms with.





	create a mantra, and stick with it

**Author's Note:**

> yeah i've got no words all i know is im literally going to hell.

_on the subway, be home in 5, c u soon :)_

Tony hits send after typing the message and slumps lower into his spot on the plastic subway bench. It had been an especially tiresome day at work. As an intern 6 months out of grad school, he knows that by now, he should probably be accustomed to overworking and underpayment, but it’s hard to forget that when he leaves work with blurry vision everyday.

Staring at computer screens for several hours daily might not be worth it in the long run. And he’s not extremely satisfied that crouching over in the shitty chair at his desk has got him taking prescribed back pain medication at 23.

It’s all quite miserable. In fact, the only things Tony has looked forward to each day in the last 6 months is the time he gets to spend with his boyfriend Steve—which had been difficult even before he got this job.

Steve, recently turned 30, sporadically teaches art classes at the local community college.

 _I know it cuts down our time together,_ Steve had told him, _but you know how much I love art, Tony. And you should see the students, they love how I teach._

It’s not like Tony was upset that Steve, at least, had found a job that he liked. He’s more upset that Steve’s schedule is so _strange_. Sometimes he’ll be gone before 8 in the morning, or he’ll disappear before Tony gets home, and won’t get back until it’s nearly 5AM. By then Tony’s either asleep, or just waking up to get ready, and make himself some breakfast before he leaves for work.

Cutting down their time together is a bit of an understatement, in Tony’s opinion.

Tony fiddles around on his phone in the next 5 minutes it takes to get to his stop.

He sees that Steve read his message, and is slightly discouraged by the lack of a response.

In the back of his mind, there is a voice nagging to him that Steve might be cheating, but Tony feels too fragile to confront his partner.

They’d been living together for a little less than a year, so he wants to trust that Steve isn’t just using him for apartment space. He does make use of the common room as a makeshift art studio. Tony finds it endearing, as there are multiple paintings of him scattered around on different easels.

_There’s no way he’d cheat, right?_

Tony ponders the situation as he walks the remainder of his route home.

It would be odd for him to question Steve about his fidelity—it would imply that he doesn’t trust Steve, and reveal one insecurity too may.

Besides, Steve always fronts half the bill for their rent.

There’s no way.

When he’s finally standing in front of his door, Tony pulls his key from his pocket and unlocks it with a weary sigh. He expects to be spending another night alone, but when he pushes open the door, he’s unexpectedly greeted by the ardent, soothing [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ECQ7Go8cbco) of a violin being carried through the apartment via speakers.

He supposes Steve must be home then.

Painting, probably.

Tony smiles and sets his things against the wall. He allows his feet to carry him towards the door of the common room. It’s cracked, and Tony can see a strip of Steve’s blue shirt directly in front of him through the open space.

He raises an eyebrow, slightly confused but nonetheless deterred, and pulls the door open. Steve is indeed standing directly in front of the door, facing him.

A wet hand immediately covers his eyes, and another pulls Tony into the room.

“What are you doing? You’re getting paint on me, Steve. These are my work clothes, y’know.” He’s still got an amused smile on his face when Steve moves to stand behind him, both paint-covered hands are placed on his now equally as messy face.

Steve says nothing.

With no walls or doors blocking his ear’s from the music playing in the room, Tony wouldn’t be able to tell that Steve sounds out of breath if not for how close he is behind him.

“Ste—”

“I’ve got a surprise for you, baby.”

Tony’s smile falters.

He takes a deep breath. He hadn’t noticed it before but—

“Steve, what’s that smell?”

“I’ve been wanting to show you all day.”

Tony immediately pushes Steve’s hands away from him and takes a step forward.

He stares at the room in front of him, and for only a brief second, is completely silent.

Blood. Not paint. There’s _blood_ everywhere. All over the wooden floor, on the cream colored walls— _splattered across paintings of him_.

In the middle of the room, there’s a human-shaped lump of pale, glossy flesh staring up at the ceiling.

Tony wheezes out a gasp and backs away, right back to where he stood a moment ago, with Steve’s chest pressed to his back.

His hands shake as he reaches up to cover his mouth in shock, only to feel a warm trickle of liquid down his finger.

Tony’s body begins to tremble just as Steve wraps his arms around him from behind.

“This one is just for you. I know you’re going to enjoy it, Tony.” Steve whispers into his ear, but Tony isn’t listening.

He’s frantically wiping away at the blood Steve had gotten on his face, trying to _get it off!_ as much as possible before he scrambles out of Steve’s grip and towards the corner of the room that is farthest away from the bleeding corpse in the center.

Steve had moved the rug they keep there, and laid down newspaper, Tony notices.

He’d laid down fucking newspaper—which wasn’t doing much now, all red and soaked, and _he’s going to throw up._

Tony jerks his head away from the sight before him, frantically moving to grab his phone from his jacket pocket and pressing at the home button to unlock it.

_Touch ID does not recognize your fingerprint._

With a horrified expression, Tony tries again, and again, and again, but wiping his stained hands against his slacks only causes the drying, sticky blood to shift around on his fingers.

He doesn’t notice Steve slowly walking over to him.

Tony watches, silent and shaking, as the phone, as if it’s some delicacy, is slowly pulled from his hands. He watches as it’s pushed into Steve’s back pocket, and he can’t help but let out an insignificant whimper of protest.

“If you need to call someone, Tony, you can do it later. Besides, we haven’t spent time together in so long. I’m trying to make it up to you, sweetheart. Aren’t you going to say anything?” Steve moves forward to pull Tony into a hug, and begins to card his fingers through Tony’s hair the way he knows Tony likes it.

As if everything is fine.

As if there isn’t a dead body just feet away from them.

When Tony says nothing, Steve continues.

“Come on, let me show you.” He pulls back from the hug, and suddenly Tony’s wrists are being gripped very tightly, and Steve is dragging him towards the soggy newspaper.

“N-No.” Tony rasps. Of course he doesn’t want to be anywhere near a godforsaken dead body, but the smell of blood has become so nauseating.

He can hardly think straight.

Tony feels numb.

His legs, his arms, his expression—all frozen in place from the trauma of discovering from what he’s come home to.

Tony can feel the bile ready to exit his stomach any moment now.

Steve has pushed him down to the floor, so they’re both on their knees, now inches away from the soon to be rotting corpse.

The corpse that Steve had brought into their home.

It’s a man—unidentifiable with the way Steve has cut off his ears and nose and eyelids. The body has been stripped bare. There’s dried blood on the man’s face, and it looks like—it looks like Steve had been smoothing paintbrushes across the man’s skin. There are creative strokes of red painted across nearly every inch of skin.

Tony feels his stomach lurch as he gags.

Steve reacts calmly, beginning to run a hand through Tony’s hair again, ever so gently massaging at his scalp.

And then there’s a hand cupping his cock through his trousers. Tony doesn’t notice straight away.

He can’t take his eyes off the dead body.

 _Did this man have a family? A life? Someone waiting for him at home? How is he going to explain this to the police? Why did Steve do such a thing? Is this the first_ _—_

Steve undoes his button and unzips his fly.

“Stop—St-Steve, stop. _Stop, stop, st_ —”

“Do you not want to spend time with me, Tony?”

Distressed, Tony begins to cry. First, a single, fat tear spilling down his face. It isn’t long until he croaks out his first wail and is full on sobbing, his body shaking profusely as he drops down to sit back on his feet.

He doesn’t hear Steve sigh, but he can hear him continue pulling down his slacks, and his underwear, until he can feel the fabric bunched up above his knees.

Tony only begins to sob louder when Steve takes hold of his cock. He seems to notice that Tony, evidently, isn’t having a very good time, and lets go of him for a moment. His hand returns to it’s position wet and slimy.

“I’ve missed you.” Steve whispers in his ear, and between the piercing violin music playing from the speakers, and his heart threatening to explode in his chest, Steve’s voice seems to ground him—keep him from screaming, stop his sobbing.

It’s his constant, Steve’s voice.

Tony can pretend.

He can keep his eyes squeezed shut and listen to the sound of Steve’s baritone voice and will this all away, pretend that this isn’t happening to him. Hope it’s just some wild illusion. And while he can’t convince himself that this is a dream, he can falsely force himself to believe that _it’s not that bad._

 _It’s not that bad._ He lets the words become his gospel, repeating them over and over as he feels Steve’s hand begin to move on his cock.

 _It’s not that bad,_ he repeats when he feels himself grow hard.

 _It’s not that bad,_ Tony tells himself again as Steve whispers how _pretty_ he is, how _pliant_.

_It’s not that bad._

“Just like that, Tony. You’re doing so well.”

Tony takes comfort in the words. Not their meaning, but their sound, rather.

His mantra of distraction becoming impossibly more vital as he consciously begins to jerk his hips forward, fucking into Steve’s blood-slicked hand with little thrusts and gasps.

When Steve stops, and his touch disappears, he visibly shudders and moans in protest.

He feels lost without the grounding touch of Steve’s hand in his hair.

“Please…” Tony murmurs, lightheaded.

“I’ve got you, baby.” Is all Tony hears before there’s something _warm_ around his cock.

It’s not Steve’s hand.

Suddenly, it feels as if his heart has dropped into his stomach.

Even with his eyes shut, Tony knows that Steve’s just put the corpse’s mouth around him.

He can feel it so vividly, the slack jaw and deadweight tongue encompassing and sliding against his length as Steve grips the back of the body’s head to move it.

Tony refuses to open his eyes when Steve gently guides his hands to the same position.

He refuses to open his eyes as Steve lets go of him, and he continues to drag the mouth around him back and forth.

He refuses to open his eyes as his hips stutter and he cums with an earnest moan.

“I’ve got you, baby.” Tony can hear Steve’s voice above the fading music, above his fast beating heart and low pants for air.

_It’s not that bad._

 

**Author's Note:**

> this is the result of me reading an article about the legality of necrophilia while my classical playlist was on blast.
> 
> please comment/leave feedback!


End file.
